


Storyteller

by isabeau



Category: Invisible Man (TV 2000)
Genre: Gen, Kinda old fic (pre-2005), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-01
Updated: 2005-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabeau/pseuds/isabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbes tells a story</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storyteller

Let me tell you a story, my friend, about a man who fell in love.

It isn't a unique story, except that this man, he'd never been in love before. Not really. Not in the same way. He'd known obsession, oh yes, he could do that quite well; and sex, yeah, he'd done that too; and sometimes the line had been blurred between the two, and sometimes it had been well defined, but never had it been love.

Let me tell you a story about a man who fell in love with another man: one who was an annoyance, then his partner, then his first true friend, then the only person he'd only ever trusted. This man -- our hero, the one who fell in love -- didn't realize at first what his partner meant to him. It hit him one day, while his partner was in the middle of telling an enthusiastically complex joke involving Swedish twins and a pickle and three dogs, and he laughed until he cried. Not because the joke was all that funny, but that's what you thought, didn't you, my friend? Pleased and puzzled and, eventually, ignoring it as one of Bobby Hobbes' quirks.

Let me tell you about a man who could never speak his feelings.

Words were never his strong suit, my friend, not when it really mattered. He could talk about the weather, for hours if necessary, but one simple sentence -- four words, /I love you, Darien/ -- tripped on his tongue and remained silent, even when he was at home and alone and staring at himself in the mirror.

Four words, four out of so many, and they would not come. So this man, he did other things -- brought donuts, fresh out of the bakery, instead of flowers; bought dinners, cheap Chinese takeout when they were on a case, instead of candlelit dinners; spoke of the Keeper's short skirts, instead of the way his partner, sprawling loose and relaxed in skin-tight jeans, made him so hard that he could hardly walk.

Four words that would have meant so much, and they remained silent, my friend, but no less powerful for that.

Let me tell you a story about a man who would die for the man he loved. Except -- you know that already, don't you? I don't need to tell you.

I see you, Fawkes; I see you when you think no one can, when you sit near the hospital bed and look haunted. I see your face when the Keeper comes in, when the Official comes in, and you pretend you don't care. They don't believe it, and neither do I.

Let me tell you a story about a man who would come home, if he could, if he knew how. Except that isn't me, any more; that...that *thing*, too many tubes and wires and IV lines, not enough energy or sarcasm or bravado.

Go home, Fawkes. Sleep. You can't do anything, not any more. Neither can I. But I promised once that I would always watch your back, and I haven't forgotten. I will watch over you.

Let me tell you a story, my friend, because right now, there's nothing more I can do.  



End file.
